Where I Follow
by borgprincess
Summary: A quiet, routine day on the Plateau...Marguerite and Roxton are abducted by vengeful natives. Naturally. Who wants them dead now and why?
1. Chapter 1

_---beta'd by the lovely odakota_rose, to whom this fic is dedicated ---_

[I'm sure it's a breach of etiquette to ask someone to work on something intended for them, but I'm certain she'll forgive me…]

**Where I Follow**

Chapter 1

---

'_**Trouble, he will find you no matter where you go, oh, oh**_

_**No matter if you're fast, no matter if you're slow, oh, oh…'**_

_**- Lenka, **_**Trouble is a Friend**_**.  
**_

---

It was a beautiful day on the Plateau. No storms on the horizon, no unusual phenomena ready to cause chaos, instead they were graced with clear blue skies and warm sun. The usual jungle cacophony was quieter today, and there was a lazy atmosphere that suggested predators and prey alike had decided to take the day off and spend some quality time doing nothing in particular.

Of course, not everyone could manage to maintain peace and quiet that well.

"We're lost."

"We're not lost," Roxton said confidently. The hunter was leading the way back to the treehouse, although he was being dogged every second by the doubt and mockery of his dark-haired companion.

"We're _lo-ost_," she repeated in an irritating sing-song voice.

"We are _not_ lost, Marguerite. _You_ may be, but have no fear, my superior tracking skills will lead us home."

"Superior! There are few tasks at which you are my _equal_, and as for superior…" she cocked her head to one side, pretending to give the matter serious thought, 'Well, your arrogance exceeds mine, I'll give you that."

"And being a shrew is one of your finer talents," he muttered under his breath as Marguerite continued her tirade.

"To keep going this way is pointless when the _right_ way is in the opposite direction!" she insisted. "Why men are incapable of admitting they have no idea where they're going, why they can't just stop and ask for directions is- beyond me…" she trailed off, taking in the sight of a group of men headed in their direction. "Oh, look. Why don't we stop and see if _they_ have any idea where we are?" she said.

"For the last time, I _know_ where we are!"

Marguerite ignored this exasperated comment in favor of examining the strangers. She couldn't put a name to them, despite searching her memories from past experiences as well as Veronica's stories. They were a fairly homogenous looking group, brown-skinned and dark-haired, wearing rough brown tunics that only just covered their knees. "Bland, boring, functional- just _barely_ decent," she noted with disdain. "Do you suppose they use Veronica's tailor?"

Her steps slowed as the men suddenly brandished weapons in a business-like manner, wielding a variety of swords and spears and clubs in their direction, looking like they were spoiling for a fight. _Great, who'd we piss off _now_?_

"Still think we should make enquiries with those fellows over there?" Roxton asked lightly, nonetheless betraying his anxiety by the firm grip he took on her arm to keep her in place, though it wasn't necessary. She had lost her desire to make their acquaintance.

"No need. The natives look preoccupied, we shouldn't inconvenience them."

"Good idea. They obviously don't believe in Veronica's minimalist attitude toward weapons," he said, pulling her back the way they had come. "I vote we don't wait around to determine whether they match her proficiency."

She looked over her shoulder, noted the threatening way the oncoming horde shook their weapons and then gave up all dignity and started running, Roxton keeping pace beside her. "Pity it took some primitives with clubs and spears to convince you to listen to me, Roxton," she couldn't help sniping at him as they ran through the jungle. "If you had just admitted I was right half an hour ago, we wouldn't _be_ in this mess."

"Whose brilliant idea was it to slip off and go gem-hunting instead of heading straight back to the treehouse with the others?" he shot back.

"So let me get this straight, the rest of you can go off hunting for exotic trophies or foraging for rare plants-" Marguerite paused for a moment as she nearly lost her footing and reached up to keep her hat firmly on her head, then picked up without missing a beat, "- searching for missing parents or measuring scientific phenomena, and that's all good and well, but the moment I want to do something in my own interests, _that's_ suddenly out of line?"

Roxton heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Why don't you save your breath, Marguerite?" He quickly glanced behind them and noted with relief that they were outpacing their pursuers. Perhaps luck was on their side for a change.

"Just admit that you're-" she began on a note of triumph, then abruptly let out a strangled shriek of surprise as men appeared right in front of her, dropping down from the trees all around them. They had walked- nay, _run_ right into an ambush. "Of course, it _would_ be our luck to run into savages with tactical training."

Marguerite whipped up her rifle but the press of bodies all around her prevented her from being able to lift it and fire. One of their attackers wrestled it out of her grasp and others held her arms pinned behind her back. "Roxton!" she called out, then gasped despite herself as she saw him receive a few brutal blows to the head, knocking him unconscious. He was bundled off immediately, while the men holding her had a brief discussion amongst themselves.

"Would it make a difference if I told you I wasn't with him?" she tried with a winning smile. They looked at her. "Never seen him before in my life. Really."

One of the natives took firm hold of her chin and stared at her thoughtfully, then nodded and gave an order to the rest, who began shoving her along. Marguerite sighed, but didn't see any other option except to go where she was bidden. She could, of course, dig in her heels like a stubborn mule and refuse to budge but that was hardly likely to work.

"Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed," she grumbled. Someone spoke sharply, then emphasized the command with the point of his spear. "Ow! Alright already, I'm going, I'm going!" she glared at him, then turned her head dismissively, shrugging out of his grip, making a point to jab him with her elbows, and then strode off quickly after the men bearing Roxton.

Behind her, a few men began to rant heatedly and she smirked. If she was going to be a prisoner, she was certainly not going to be a model of decorum or a paragon of sweetness and light. She didn't even try to be like that with people she _liked_- tolerated, rather, Marguerite hastily corrected herself- never mind brutes that abducted her.

As their conversation turned to more interesting channels, she slowed down a little in order to eavesdrop. Her mysterious linguistic abilities had surfaced, allowing her to understand their tongue, and she carefully kept her expression weary and resentful to keep from betraying her knowledge. At least she could find out _why_ they were being taken prisoner, and hopefully figure out a way to avoid ending up dead.

She focused on Roxton as she walked, glaring at his unconscious figure. _The least you could do is wake up and help me figure out how to escape instead of expecting _me_ to rescue you. Make me do all the work, why don't you. Typical!_

If she focused on her irritation, she could ignore the slowly simmering fear that lurked at the back of her mind. They would get out of this, one way or another. They always did.

---------------

A/N: My first TLW fic, please be kind. Reviews are much appreciated. :D


	2. Chapter 2

_---made extra shiny, thanks to the beta'ing of odakota_rose *squishes*---_

**Where I Follow**

Chapter 2

---

'_**Acting oblivious**_

_**Comes natural to us**_

_**Keep smiling knowing all the while the world will fall apart**_

_**The world will fall apart**_

_**So we're gonna skipalong**_

_**Quite merrily, baby, we're gonna revel in hating what's going on…'**_

_**-Lenka, **_**Skipalong**

---

Immediately after Roxton regained consciousness, he regretted it. There was a relentless pounding in his head that would not quit, and the bright glaring sunshine that blinded him when he opened his eyes didn't help matters, in addition to mocking his pain. It seemed the world should be grey and dreary to suit his mood, instead of this pleasant sunny weather. He groaned dismally.

"At last, Sleeping Beauty awakens," a familiar sharp voice greeted him. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence."

He would've made an attempt at a witty response, but the discovery that he was securely tied to a thick wooden beam anchored in the ground dampened his creative expression. "Bloody hell."

"My, my, and so eloquent today."

"My pardon, Marguerite. Unfortunately, waking up with a blinding headache and finding myself bound so securely that my blood circulation is in danger of being cut off has a chilling effect on my eloquence." Their captors hadn't been content merely to loop the rope around his wrists as was traditional, or so he recalled from the last few times he'd been held captive, no, they'd crisscrossed it all over his body, giving him the appearance of a mummy. It was almost flattering how they overestimated his ability to burst free of his restraints. Roxton sighed. Couldn't they face an enemy that _under_estimated them for a change?

Well, at least they'd left his face bare in a show of some minor courtesy. _Small comfort_, he thought wryly.

"I seem to have fared mildly better than you," Marguerite said, and he looked over to see that in _her_ case, only her wrists were bound. At least she wasn't trussed up like a turkey. "How do we always end up here?" she sighed, and he accurately took it in the metaphorical sense. He did have a sense of déjà vu in this particular situation.

"Must be the strength of your charm that strikes them at a hundred paces," he suggested. "Draws them in like flies to honey." He looked at her consideringly. "Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say like moths to a flame."

She threw him a disdainful look. "They knocked _you_ out straight off. I was an afterthought. It was you they were after."

"So maybe they won't kill you," Roxton said, feeling relief, although it lasted only moments.

"I wish," she said with a hollow laugh. "But no, death is too good for me. They have other plans for my future."

Roxton felt a sickening wrench of fear at her words. No, of course they wouldn't kill her. A woman as beautiful as Marguerite wouldn't be given such a quick or merciful fate.

He glanced at her again, and considered how her clothes showed off her body to advantage. It wasn't that she dressed inappropriately, compared to Veronica, she was _over_dressed. But the low neckline of her blouse drew attention to her cleavage, the belt over her tucked-in blouse emphasized her small waist and her skirt outlined the fine tush of hers that he had often admired.

Not that her attire mattered, Marguerite was one of those rare women who could be clad in sackcloths and not lose one iota of her stunning beauty. Roxton could attest to the fact that even when soaking wet, or covered in dust and mud, or exhausted to the point where he was astounded she managed to keep one foot in front of the other, she was nonetheless breath-taking.

And Marguerite was far from oblivious to this; she knew her strengths and played to them without hesitation. The other explorers had seen her effortlessly manipulating men on many occasions, employing her key strategy of distracting them with her alluring beauty til she could eliminate the threat. He was very familiar with these games she played, though it didn't help render him immune to her potency in their personal skirmishes. Ruefully, he recalled more than one occasion where she had skilfully strung him along before bringing him back down to earth with a resounding thump.

But a person's strength was also their weakness; her looks were a two-edged sword that made her all the more inviting and vulnerable in their current predicament. Now this remarkable woman he had become so protective of was at the mercy of these thugs while he was bound and helpless to come to her aid. This was the stuff of nightmares.

"What the hell do they want?" he asked furiously, straining against his bonds.

Marguerite watched him calmly. "That won't do you any good," she said chidingly. "You'll wear yourself out for nothing. Cracking a rib or two won't help me either."

It was the latter more than anything that made him cease. Snapping the ropes free was a futile fantasy, but concentrating on it gave him something to do, making him feel less helpless. But none of this would help Marguerite.

He rested his head against the post, sighing wearily. "What do they want?" he repeated softly. It was a rhetorical question but to his surprise, Marguerite answered.

"Your head on a stick, apparently," she said. "Charming lot, aren't they? From what I gather, you offered the chief of this tribe of savages a grave insult and naturally the only way to avenge it is to kill you."

"Oh, _naturally_, of course," he said with healthy sarcasm. "You don't suppose he'd be reasonable and accept a heartfelt apology for this imagined slight?"

"When have we ever been that lucky? Besides, I don't think it was imagined."

"Are you serious? I don't even remember encountering these people before, and I think I'd bloody well remember dishonoring someone badly enough to warrant a death sentence."

"I didn't say it was warranted," she replied. "Remember that wild boar you killed just last week?"

"Yes. Pleasant change from raptor meat, that was."

"Remember how it was _limping_?"

He nodded. "Made it a lot easier to-" Marguerite gave him a significant look and at last he caught on. "Don't tell me it was-"

"Supposed to be gracing someone else's menu, not our own? Yes. The men came down here for a hunting trip and unfortunately found themselves outmatched-"

"Wait, was that a compliment?" he interrupted.

"Focus, John. Need I repeat the part about death warrants? Besides, maybe I meant the _dinosaurs_," she said archly.

"I'll remember your lack of appreciation for my hunting skills. You won't be getting a dinner invitation to my table again anytime soon," he muttered.

Marguerite smiled wickedly. "That's all right. I'll just have to occupy myself in the kitchen, preparing dinner from whatever game you've brought in." She snickered at his alarmed expression before continuing with her findings. "Anyway, the chief lost face because you took down the game they were hunting, and he feels you're challenging his manhood because it's _his_ fault if the hunt doesn't go well, so he decided that you had to be sacrificed for the greater good. Not to mention his pride. Men's egos are _so_ delicate."

She gave him an arch look but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead he said with disgust, "Interesting how a personal grievance ended up setting the whole tribe after us. If he was any sort of man, he'd've challenged me one-on-one."

She rolled her eyes. "I can't believe you think he's justified, if not by the means he chose but in his grudge against you. _Men_. Not a wit to rub together between the two of you."

"We do endeavour to live _down_ to your expectations of us," he said sarcastically.

"And you succeed remarkably," Marguerite snapped back.

They spent the next few minutes in tense silence, simmering in irrational hostility towards one another before Roxton sighed. "We need to focus on getting out of here," he said quietly.

"Any bright ideas?"

Her words lacked any bite. Her heart wasn't into it. Which was good, Roxton thought, because they weren't going to get out of this if they were bickering with each other the whole way. Or at least, they might, but it'd be a damn sight more complicated.

"Well, Marguerite, you always complain I don't put enough thought into planning. How about you be the mastermind of our daring escape?"

"That's right, get us into this mess and then leave it to _me_ to save your hide."

Roxton decided that mentioning they would've been safe at the treehouse with their friends to provide backup against unwelcome intruders if she hadn't taken off on a new gem-hunting quest probably wasn't the best direction in which to take this conversation. "Where are our charming hosts?" he asked, noticing the camp looked rather empty.

There were only five men in sight, occupied with mundane tasks. One was sharpening knives in a rather ominous manner, although perhaps it was the state of being held captive that made one overly paranoid.

A flash of movement caught his eye and he turned his head to see a young woman at the corner of the camp, hunched over a mixture of herbs, grinding something in a bowl. She was fair-haired, unlike the rest of the hunting party, and looked tanned rather than naturally dark-skinned. _What is she doing here?_ he wondered_. Is she one of them?_

"Most of the men have gone off with the shaman to do some cleansing. They're very religious folk."

Returning his attention to Marguerite, he said lightly, "Who believe that cleanliness is next to godliness? Considering some of the tribes we've met in these parts, that's at least one point in their favor."

"I see I didn't make myself clear- _ritual_ cleansing, Roxton," she clarified tartly. "As in, we have contaminated their spirits with our presence and they must be purified, else the gods will strike them down with illness and misfortune. Shame it's not likely to happen in time to do us any good."

"I don't suppose there's any chance of converting them to another religion? One that embraces peace and enlightenment over executing strangers for no good reason?"

"Oh, go ahead, add charges of _heresy_ to our heads, things are going so well already."

He began to retort but cut himself off as the girl who had been hovering around the edges of the camp slowly approached them with a tray, being careful not to draw attention to herself. When she drew closer, Roxton noticed with bemusement that her hair was not uniformly blonde but artificially streaked with incongruous darker strands in uneven lengths, like she'd colored it. _For some sort of traditional ceremony, perhaps?_

Marguerite muttered something uncomplimentary about his tendency to draw jungle tarts no matter the situation, and he shot her a glare before redirecting his attention to the young woman, giving her a small reassuring smile. Perhaps this was not a lost cause after all.

She set her things down on the ground and lifted a cup to his lips, nodding encouragingly.

"What is that?" Roxton hesitated, regarding the drink with suspicion. The girl's green eyes were clear and guileless but this wasn't the sort of situation that bred unquestioning trust.

"Go on," Marguerite said mockingly. "If they were going to kill you right here and now, I'm sure the men would be drawing straws over which of them got to do the deed and you'd be facing someone a lot more intimidating than a girl with a cup of water."

"Whatever it is, it doesn't smell like water," he said with distaste.

At his obvious reluctance, the girl spoke a few words in a reassuring tone. "Ou te fia fesoasoani atu. O le vailaau."

"She says it's medicine," Marguerite translated. "You look so awful that she decided to ease your suffering. Or maybe she didn't want to offend the gods with a second-rate offering."

"I'm sure it's my _haggard_, woefully _unattractive_ appearance that prompted her to come and take care of me," he smirked.

"It could only be pity that motivated her to your side," she agreed blandly. When she failed to pursue any further line of insults, he looked over and saw how intently Marguerite studied this new presence. She must see the potential for salvation as well, if they played their cards right.

When the girl lifted the cup to his lips again, he mentally shrugged and sipped it carefully. With raised eyebrows, he gulped the rest of it down more enthusiastically. "Now that's not what I call medicine- it actually tasted quite nice. I'll have to get Challenger and Veronica working on duplicating it when we get back."

"Let's not share the results of any such experiment with Malone. The man gets knocked on the head too often as it is, without making the process of recuperation more pleasant for him."

He snorted. The younger man spent more time unconscious than any person had a right to- he was just too eager to prove himself, and had a tendency to jump before looking. After two years on the Plateau, especially with Veronica as a willing tutor, he was certainly more capable than the first day he stepped foot in the jungle but he still had a ways to go before he could present a decent challenge to the myriad of threats in this lost world.

Of course, the reporter wasn't the one currently tied to a post in preparation for a ritual sacrifice, so Roxton couldn't bring himself to feel too superior.

The girl began carefully tending the open wound on his forehead, with such proficiency that he barely felt any pain. "She certainly has a more delicate touch than you, my dear," he told Marguerite. "She might have to take your place as our resident Florence Nightingale."

"Such a pity, I'm sure I'll miss tending to everyone's cuts and bruises. Of course, I won't need to kiss your hurts and make it better anymore," she said musingly.

"I take it back, nobody can replace you and your _talented_ nursing," he replied immediately with a boyish grin. "Although…" he frowned. "My head has stopped pounding. Whatever she gave me is very effective." As she finished and began packing up her materials, he turned his head and caught her eye. "Thank you," Roxton said in heartfelt tones. "I feel a lot better already." She gazed back at him silently. "Marguerite, can you tell her-"

"You are welcome," the girl answered, surprising them both.

"You can speak our language?" he said.

"I am familiar with it."

"I'm John Roxton," he made the introductions, "And this is Marguerite Krux. We were exploring the area, hoping to find a way off the Plateau when we inadvertently crossed your people."

"My name is Calli. And they are _not_ my people," she gave a small unamused snort. "Do not let them hear you say so, especially Marek. This is more...an arrangement of mutual convenience. I assist the shaman, they give me shelter," she said, and shrugged eloquently.

"Fascinating, we'll want to hear all about your life story but can we do that at a later stage?" Marguerite interjected. "Say, _after_ you help us escape?"

The girl recoiled. "I cannot- it would ensure my death as well or at the least, I would be exiled. No," she shook her head fiercely, "These people may not care for me much, but at least here among others, I am safer than out alone in the jungle."

"I understand," Roxton said in a gentler tone, throwing Marguerite a warning glance. She let out a huff and settled her head against the post with an air of disinterest, taking a back seat and allowing him to take over for now. "Listen, we don't want to bring you any harm. But we can help you, we can take you with us."

"You would say anything to win your freedom," Calli said, doubt clouding her eyes. "I could risk everything to help you only to find I have traded for a worse situation than before."

"I give you my word," he said with all sincerity. "My friends and I will protect you if we can get away. You won't have to fear reprisal from these men."

She wavered, torn by indecision. Marguerite sensed an opening and spoke up, "You didn't have to help Roxton just now," she pointed out. "I think you're looking, _hoping_ for a way out. We're your best chance of that."

"There's nothing I can do to prove to you that we can be trusted. I made you a promise but you have to make up your mind what that's worth. The decision is entirely up to you," Roxton said persuasively. "Take a chance on us and the possibility of a better life…"

"Or remain with this cutthroat band of scoundrels and hope for the best. At the very least, you know we eat better than they do."

"When you're not on kitchen duty anyway," muttered Roxton.

"I'm not the one who puts my name on the roster," she snapped back, then tensed. The sudden sound of movement nearby heralded the return of the rest of the hunting party. "Time's a-wasting," Marguerite said impatiently. "Look, if you decide to help us, we'll need our things. Our weapons." At Calli's blank look, she quickly gave the abbreviated explanation of the concept of guns. "Big bang. Lots of pain. Bad guys fall down. If you do it right, they don't get back up. Trust me, they're more effective than knives and spears."

"Your presence here suggests otherwise," Calli said, with a small twitch of the lips to show she was jesting. Marguerite's eyes narrowed, but she refrained from a response. This small show of humor was a good sign. The girl collected her things, "I shall consider-" she froze as a loud unpleasant voice cut into the conversation and one of the natives stormed towards them.

"_Calli!_ O le ä lau mea lenä e fai?"


	3. Chapter 3

With love to odakota_rose for putting up with my constant second-guessing and never-ending need for reassurance that _it doesn't suck as much as I think it does_.

**Where I Follow**

Chapter 3

---

'_**We will be alright  
I'll be by your side  
I won't let you down…**__**'**_

**- **_**Lenka, **_**Don't Let Me Fall**

---

'_**You know that I could use somebody  
You know that I could use somebody  
Someone like you and all you know and how you speak…'  
- Kings of Leon, **_**Use Somebody**

---

"_Calli!_ What do you think you're doing?"

Marguerite heaved a long-suffering sigh as the man furiously approached their only ticket out of captivity. Obviously uncomfortable with confrontation, Calli was frozen in place, looking like she wished she'd never laid eyes on them. Unfortunately her accuser seemed disinclined to accommodate his target's tender sensibilities, bristling with open aggression as he focused upon her with hostile eyes.

He was tall and dark, as were the others, but unlike them, his hair hung long and loose down his back over a robe with stylized patterns woven all over its surprisingly luxurious fabric. If she were to hazard an educated guess, it would be that he was of a higher status than the warriors. Marguerite saw that the man possessed matching markings across his arms as he gestured accusingly at Calli, ranting at her in his native tongue.

When she made a halting explanation, he abruptly cut her off, grabbing hold of her hair and roughly shaking her.

"Hey," Roxton shouted in a futile protest. Of course it would be impossible for him to just sit back and passively watch such a scene. "Leave the girl alone."

The man looked at him with distaste. "Outsider. You have no say here."

Marguerite raised her eyebrow. "I guess English is the national language around here," she remarked to no one in particular. "How handy."

"You shall be dead before you see another dawn. Do not concern yourself with these matters."

"I'm not dead yet," Roxton replied heatedly. "And it _is_ my concern if you're going to punish her for helping me."

"Hmm, it is just as I suspected. Perhaps I shall deem her to have been tainted," he said thoughtfully, looking at the collection of herbal pastes and powders Calli was holding, evidence of her ministrations. "She offered you assistance, surely only one with a soul claimed by the dark would act in such a manner."

"Oh, please, don't be so dramatic," Marguerite drawled in her most insulting manner. It was almost comical how his head snapped up and he gazed at her with a transparent disbelief that turned to dark anger as she continued flippantly, "There's no harm done. She mopped the sweat from Roxton's brow, so what? We're still here, aren't we? Helpless prisoners, completely at your mercy."

He released the girl, who promptly fled, and strode over to Marguerite, advancing on her threateningly. She tipped her head back against the pole so that she could meet his eyes and smiled calmly. Another mark against her, she could tell. The man had a problem with bold women, it seemed.

Too bad, since that was a quality she possessed in spades. And pushing such men to the edge, throwing them off-balance in order to take advantage of their confusion was a well-honed talent of hers. It was a dangerous undertaking, but someone had to do it and she didn't think Roxton was suited to the task, though the thought of him applying her particular methods was rather funny.

"A female's tongue should be cut out at birth so that she does not trouble men with her nonsense," the man hissed, moving in close, bracing an arm over her head and purposely crowding her.

She was far from perturbed at such an obvious ploy. "But then you would miss out on the other more _enjoyable_ things a woman can do with her tongue," Marguerite said in a sultry tone. She deliberately flicked her tongue over her upper lip, and smiled triumphantly as his gaze involuntarily dropped to follow the motion.

He flinched at her obvious amusement, then reared back and slapped her across the face. Roxton let out a roar of anger, hurling vehement insults to try and distract his attentions from Marguerite.

But she had seen her opponent's face contort with embarrassment and anger, read his body language which clearly telegraphed his intentions and anticipated his move. While she was unable to escape it entirely, by turning her head to the side a moment before he struck, the blow didn't land as hard as he'd intended.

With regal disdain, Marguerite slowly raised an eyebrow, undaunted. "Oh, well said. Your position was cleverly argued, you have convinced me."

Glaring at her, he spat out a crude curse. "_Kefe_, momo."

"Charming as that sounds, I have to decline. After all, we haven't even been introduced yet."

He clenched a fist, face tense with inarticulate rage but then halted at a call from the center of the camp. Giving her a look that warned her that this wasn't over, he stalked away to deal with the query.

"And just when we were becoming fast friends," she sighed with mock disappointment.

"That didn't sound very pleasant," Roxton commented. His voice was tight, evidence of his consternation at seeing her mistreated this way, but he had slowly regained his composure once he saw she was unaffected by the encounter.

"I've heard worse. The man doesn't possess what you'd call an original mind. I finally understand our purpose here- to restore the lost art of witty banter to these simple, unsophisticated folk. They have no idea how to carry on the most basic patter with prisoners, it's disgraceful."

"He didn't look like he was in the mood to appreciate your wit."

"Some men don't appreciate what they've got til they lose it," Marguerite sighed. Her eyes took on a faraway look as she considered the options available to implement their escape, and a smirk curled her lips. "Why don't we test the theory that absence makes the heart grow fonder?"

"Just promise me I'll never have to find out."

Her mind ground to a halt in the middle of its machinations, caught by the fervor of his tone. Still, she was certain that this was a joke at her expense and so she turned to Roxton with a tart remark ready, only to find a tender smile on his lips and no hint of mockery in his expression.

Biting back her retort, Marguerite searched his eyes uncertainly, but after seeing only heartfelt sincerity, a slow smile began to spread over her face. It was hard to resist Roxton when they were bickering in a friendly manner, and near impossible when he deliberately set out to be charming. The man picked the damnedest moments to put aside their regular verbal sparring in favor of a few sweet words and it threw her every time. If she thought he did so just to manipulate her or score a point off her, this would be a troubling realization but she had learnt that John Roxton was not that predictable. She could read him well enough to see the honesty underlying his words; these were not pretty compliments designed to bend her to his will, he meant exactly what he said. For some unfathomable reason, he never wanted to let her go.

And she didn't know how to respond to that. No, she knew how she _should_ respond; in her cold logical moments, she knew it was dangerous, she knew it should be discouraged, she knew it was folly to indulge in this flirtation because it was too easy for that enticing familiarity to foster impossible dreams and she of all people knew how easily dreams could be crushed, and her spirit with it. At the very beginning, she had fully intended to keep her distance from the dashing Lord Roxton and to ensure their paths never crossed once they returned from this expedition. But as fate would have it, they were stranded together and now the man that was supposed to have become nothing more than a distant memory was making a steady, determined pursuit of her heart- the one thing she had sworn never to give up.

So it should have frightened her that his smile could make that treacherous heart of hers skip a beat. It should have frightened her that these few words, hinting at a depth of feeling she didn't want to consider, melted the barriers she so painstakingly erected to protect herself. Her old instincts screamed at her to withdraw, to make a cutting remark calculated to wound and make him think twice about how worthy she was of his attentions.

Or, she compromised, even just to laugh it off, to diffuse the moment with a playful quip. John wouldn't push her, he didn't expect her to respond in kind, and he would laugh and accept her step backwards with a cheerful patience.

So maybe that was why she couldn't belittle him. Because she knew she could hurt him and he wouldn't draw away. She had given him more than enough reason and yet, inexplicably, he was still there by her side. True, that happened to be in the distinctly unromantic atmosphere of an enemy camp, but it didn't discount the fact that he had come after her when she had left the others to engage in more interesting and potentially profitable pursuits, even after their blazing row about the difference between vital necessities and selfish desires. She really shouldn't be so charmed by him, given that he was the reason they were embroiled in this latest crisis involving hostile natives, but knowing he would give up his life if it would secure her freedom made it hard for her to hold a grudge. That was a hell of a trump card indeed, damn the noble self-sacrificing idiot.

The realist in her railed at the impossibility of a future for them, especially since they were currently reluctant guests subject to the dubious hospitality of a decidedly unfriendly host, but the romantic didn't care- she just relished the moment and didn't see the need to make it any more complicated than that. There were no tomorrows, no yesterdays, just the now in which he smiled at her with his heart in his eyes and she smiled back, the small hesitant quirk of her lips growing wide and unrestrained at his answering delight.

Marguerite wouldn't make any promises she couldn't keep, but she would accept his words in the spirit they were meant. And if her own shining eyes made silent vows she could not freely speak, well, she could always just blame it on a trick of the light.


End file.
